The Music of the Night
by MsHope
Summary: She found a letter lying on her bed. She tore it up into shreds, watching as sharp handwriting became indistinguishable. She watched as it all disappeared and became specks blown away by the cold night air. It's over now, the music of the night. ALW-based, Antoinette Giry/Erik.


It was well past midnight, and Madame Giry – Antoinette, rather – could not sleep. She would not show it, but she was extremely worried for Christine Daae, one of the talents she was taking care of. Erik was beyond mad for Christine, and it was affecting Christine's performances. The happenings recently were beyond disturbing, but she did not do anything. No,_ correction_, she could not do anything, even if she tried her best to stop everything that was happening.

She knew that if _he_ wanted something, he would drop everything, kill everything in his way, just to get what he wanted. She knew because once, he dropped everything for her.

_But it was a long, long time ago._

She heard a knock, knowing full well who it was. She sighed. She grabbed a robe and wrapped it tightly around herself hurriedly. She disregarded the fact that her hair was not tied nor plaited. _She had more important things to take care of._

_It was nothing he had not seen before, anyway._

She put her full-length mirror aside, and unlocked the door behind it.

_He _pushed the door hurriedly. He was panting, his lips slightly parted. He made his way to her and passionately captured her lips, thrusting his tongue in her mouth. She was caught off-guard, staring at him in shock. His tongue danced awkwardly in her mouth. He placed his hand on the small of her back, and another hand supported the back of her head, even playing with her blonde locks. Taking his lead, she tugged on his collar, pulling him impossibly closer to her. Her tongue swirled around his, and he tasted of expensive wine and whiskey. _It took two to tango anyway, didn't it? _

It was only then that she realized – _he tasted of expensive wine and whiskey_ and even the odor of alcohol clung to his cloak.

She immediately pushed him off, rushing to her table to pour him a glass of water.

_It was all in the heat of the moment, it was not real. Not real. Not real. _

Her hands shook as she handed him the glass, which he immediately knocked out of her hand. Instead, he pulled her flush to him, making sure that she felt him pressing against her. He started peppering kisses along her jawline and lightly traced the faint scar on her neck. Everything he did made her shiver, and that was the flaw in their current relationship – he knew all her weak spots, but she knew that only Christine could ever make him feel everything he was making her feel.

"_Erik, please," _she pleaded.

He nipped at her exposed collarbone and flicked his tongue against it. He trailed his finger from her neck to the valley of her breasts. She started breathing more heavily until she felt his fingers against her thighs. She stiffened, knowing what he wanted. _She did not want to take advantage of the situation this way. _

"_Erik!" _She pushed against his broad shoulders, attempting to push him off her. He released her, but instead, removed his cloak and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his dress shirt. He would not take the hint.

_She could have called it an assault, but she didn't. She didn't because she secretly wanted it too. _

"Tell me what you want, Antoinette," he whispered, his voice, deep and seductive. He played with her hair, while Antoinette merely breathed raggedly, placing her hands on his mask lovingly. The tension eased as he placed his hand over hers, watching her shed a tear, just one. She shook her head as her lip trembled in between her teeth.

"I need this to stop, Erik. This madness–"

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping the tear from her face. He kissed the place he wiped, staring intently into her eyes. _Her crystal-clear eyes that he could get lost into for days._

"Why do you still come back here, Erik?" Her voice cracked a little bit. She bit her lip, anxious of what his answer would be.

_There was no answer._

She scoffed, shaking her head even more. She tried to loosen his grip on her but he was too strong.

"Erik, I do not want to just be some _girl _whom you use–"

He released her from his grip slowly. She took this as an opportunity to back away from him.

"Is that what you think you are to me, Antoinette? You think you are some _girl _to me?"  
"Is that not what I am, Erik?" She said softly. Gaining more courage, she tried to free herself from his grip. Through gritted teeth, she continued, "I only exist when you need to release your emotions and use my body to do whatever you please. _You _use me to do your bidding, and there I am, still allowing you to do whatever you do, even if it can cost me my job, my _reputation. _Yet I still continued to do it for you because I am still extremely infatuated with the idea of you. Oh, and you are aware of that, and yet I only exist when you want to deliver your special roses to those who catch your eye. I only exist when you need to reach _Christine Daae_, when you need her safe. I exist only when you need her to be _yours._"

She immediately regretted what she had said, but still stood her ground mainly because those she said were all true. She wasn't normally this emotional, but for some reason (maybe because she needed sleep and it was around three in the morning), she wasn't herself. She was a totally different person. She saw the rage flash in his eyes for a split second but she knew he needed her alive. She knew he would never dare hurt her. She flinched slightly at his growl, then he turned around to the door, and pulled it open.

"This is the problem with you, Erik," she whispered. Her hair was a mess, lips swollen from their activity, and her robe was more than a little loose. She panted, staring at him in disbelief. "You run away all the time, scare and kill whatever contradicts you, finding the easiest way out of things. Things do not always go your way, Erik. I learned that from you."

_She needed him to leave, but why was she telling him to stay?_

He stopped. His fingers were gripping, suffocating the handle of her door. He suddenly turned around, immense anger in his eyes. Fire.

"_The world treated me unkindly, Antoinette. They shunned me when I needed it most!" _He shouted, his hands shaking as he clutched her neck. He immediately removed his hand, knowing he had hurt her. He stared at his hands in disbelief, disappointed in himself.

She coughed and panted, trying to get oxygen in her lungs but–

"You are more than some _woman_ to me, Antoinette. You were kind to me when the world did not treat me well. You cared for me when the world did not show me any love or mercy," he said softly, not bothering to face her and see her weeping eyes.  
"Then what am I to you, Erik?"

Antoinette shook her head, reminding herself that he was not sober enough to answer her question. She reminded herself that he was _drunk, _all because of Christine Daae.

"Do not mind me, Erik. Go back, get some sleep. We will talk in the morning." She sat on her vanity, not even trying to look at him. She wanted him to leave. This conversation was not getting them anywhere and she knew that he would not even remember it tomorrow.

He would not remember any of this tomorrow because all he would remember was his drinking problem and Christine Daae.

But to him, he was not even a little bit drunk. He was not slurring his words nor was he moving from side to side. He was sober enough, and everything he had been doing was based purely out of his own wants, only that alcohol had made him realize that he had wanted her and only her. He had known for a very long time that he was deeply in love with her. He was still in love with her, in fact, if love was the correct term. He desired her to be his, but he knew better than that. It was too late, he had already crossed the point of no return, he had taken Christine Daae for his own, and it was a huge mistake.

He was to stand there and watch everything burn.

"_Please, Erik. Please, just go," _she pleaded.

_And now, how you've repaid me: denied me and betrayed me._

She tried to compose herself through sobs.

_She remembered the troubled child she had met – a boy, just a little bit older than she was, with a heavily deformed face. He would tell her stories he heard of from other people in the show, and she would talk about her life as a ballerina-in-training. Everything was a blur after that. All she remembered was that one day, he escaped. Rope was tied tightly around his caretaker's neck. It was an ugly, ugly sight. She cringed as she remembered the man's open eyes, showing fear and pleading for mercy. She tried to close his eyes but his eyelids refused to cover the horrifying sight. She shook uncontrollably in fear, and she ran away, sobbing immensely. _

_The boy ran after her, and she brought him with her to the opera house, making sure to hide him under the opera house. She had no regrets for he was oh, so talented. He would often play heavenly music on his violin while she danced for him. She would bring him books to read and buy him charcoal and paper. She would later on find out that he drew pictures of her. They were lovely portraits, so lovely that she did not believe it was her._

_Eventually, they were able to smuggle a piano into the basement of the opera house to let him play. Her mind wandered as she remembered that they would stay under the opera house for hours, enjoying each other's company. He would write and sing songs for her, and her only. She would sing along with him, often bringing him to his feet so that they could dance together. _

_She remembered that she had believed that she loved him, and believed in the possibility that he felt the same way for her. Of course, this was proven correct when he had kissed her, a little bit in the heat of the moment when she had told him that she was chosen to be the prima ballerina. He had kissed her again and again until they were both catching their breath. He had put his forehead on hers and he told her that he loved her. _

_Life was beautiful until he mysteriously vanished._

She tried to compose herself, forcing herself to stop reliving the memory.

_It was the same thing all over again._

"_Please, Erik. Please, just go," _she pleaded once more. She pursed her lips, trying to keep a stern look despite her broken appearance

And he did.

He wanted her to have a beautiful life, a better future, with a beautiful house, and a beautiful family. He did his best to forget her, telling himself that he was not the man to give her the bright future she so deserved. He tried fighting off the urge to see her face, to feel her in his arms once more. He thought he was relieved when she married a clerk, Louis Giry, four years after (but it made him want to possess her even more). She bore a beautiful daughter, Meg, a year later, and he believed that she was truly happy. Then he tried to leave her for good. He, on the other hand, wrote more songs wherever he went. He wrote operas, designed buildings, and was celebrated in other parts of Europe, and left his glorious, celebrated life and came back to the opera house because he thought he wouldn't need to fight off what he had felt. _But it was so bloody difficult to fight off the urges to feel her skin against his, the urge to feel her lips against his, the urge to see her, the urge to make her his_. He had never forgotten her, and what he told her that night under the opera house was all true. He never lied to her even once, and he knew he had to leave her because he truly, deeply, loved her. He didn't want her to feel the burden of his sins.

Except she did.

He tried to forget her and his love for her by pouring all his work on Christine Daae, merely to divert his attention. Eventually, he learned to lust after her, _not love her,_ in the process. He thought he loved her, but he did not. _He had fallen in love with the idea of her._ Christine was, indeed, a charming young woman, but he diverted his attentions to Christine Daae because she reminded him of _her. It was to the point that he wanted to possess her. _

_(Because he could not have Antoinette for himself.)_

He could still turn around and go back to her, but he didn't.

_For who could love a monster, a deformed monster, as loathsome and ugly as he?_

He had left his cloak on the floor of her bedroom. Her room was a mess. Pieces of shattered glass glittered like stars on her stone-cold floor. She looked at the spilled water, watching it spread further. She could not take anymore.

_How did she ever get into this mess?_

She laid down on her bed, remembering that she had three hours to sleep before preparing everyone else for the new production that will be premiering that night.

She slipped into a restless slumber, reminding herself that she would have to clean up the mess the moment she woke up.

She woke up two hours later, drenched in cold sweat. It was another of those nightmares that she had.

She shook it off. She had no time for this. Her shaking hands reached for the broom she kept nearby, but when she looked on the exact spot, it was cleaned. A rose was on her vanity. He was trying to apologize, she knew.

He was trying to apologize now because he knew that tomorrow, there would not be a chance to do so.

He knew.

The hours flew by quickly, and she was preparing what she was to wear to the gala after the production. The managers pleaded her to go, and who was she to refuse? She had a feeling that something was to go horribly wrong during the production. She knew that she shouldn't have told the Vicomte anything. If anything was to happen to anyone, she would blame herself endlessly, even if she was not directly involved.

She felt as if it was all her fault.

She and the production had watched at both sides of the stage. The ensemble had been mesmerized by the man in the black cloak, thinking it was Piangi, but she knew better.

She had stopped her tears from flowing into dark, inky rivers. She had stopped trying to feel for him as he confessed his love to Christine Daae.

_He was bound to love you when he heard you sing. _

That was the last time she would ever see him.

That was the last time she heard him.

_It was the last time. _

She lied to the Vicomte, telling him that she would not dare go to Erik's lair. She wanted no harm but this was beyond madness and she could not take anymore. She returned to her chambers after everything. The rose on her vanity, she noticed, was slightly wilted. She looked at the door cautiously, dropped on the floor and tears flew freely. Dark, inky drops of liquid stained the stone flooring of her room.

She found a letter lying on her bed. She tore it up into shreds, watching as sharp handwriting became indistinguishable. She watched as it all disappeared and became specks blew away by the cold night air.

_It's over now, the music of the night._

* * *

A/N

Why? Because I so happened to think that Madame Giry knew the Phantom more and honestly, he spent more time with her than he did with Christine. Also, because Ramin Karimloo makes me cry (also Sierra Boggess because omg she's perfect).

Anyway, I hope that this wasn't too draggy and that you think it's bad because of the fragmented sentences. Mostly, if you haven't noticed: the more they lose their composure, the worse it becomes. The more that they become insane, the more I become insane also.

If you liked it, though, please leave a review/fave/follow!

-Hope-


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